


In The Can

by tardisy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Actor Dean, Actor!verse, Director Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1283350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisy/pseuds/tardisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Please don’t let me forget my lines. Please let me hit my marks. Please don’t let me puke on anyone.</i> Dean, hunched over his balled up hands, opened one eye, casting a cautious glance toward the ceiling. <i>‘Specially</i> him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "Dean gets the opportunity of a lifetime to be an extra on his favorite show, Dr. Sexy MD. Once on set he only has eyes for Dr. Sexy. That is until he meets the blue eyed, wild haired director named Castiel who seems to be a bit of a grump, but is also cute as hell."
> 
> Also posted on [Tumblr](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/post/78913910327/in-the-can-deancas-au)!

 

_Please don’t let me forget my lines._

_Please let me hit my marks._

_Please don’t let me puke on anyone_.

Dean, hunched over his balled up hands, opened one eye, casting a cautious glance toward the ceiling _. ‘Specially_ him.

“And, you know, amen,” he muttered. “Danke schoen. Whatever.”

Dean knocked back his Styrofoam cup of coffee – his sixth since arriving on the stage – like a shot, grimacing as it burned bitterly at the back of his throat. He caught sight of his face in the mirror, of the dark smudges beneath his eyes, the by-product of a night lost to anxiety, and grimaced harder.

 _Attractive, Winchester_. Ugh.

Reaching up to swipe a hand across his face, he noticed it was shaking, and although he wished he could blame it on his morning of inhuman caffeine and sugar consumption, courtesy of craft service, Dean knew it was more nerves than anything.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” he groaned.

“Glad to oblige.”

Dean’s heart rocketed to his throat, and the makeup woman, apparently equipped with teleportation powers, laughed as he sputtered and swore. She rubbed a hand across his shoulder, soothing him with an “Easy there, hot stuff” around a wide grin.

“Sorry.”

“No problem…” she trailed off, eyebrow raised in question as she looked at the call sheet, “D. Winchester?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Pamela.” She winked at him, her voice turned smoky and rough. “But I’ll let _you_ call me Pam.”

The easy flirting helped ease some of Dean’s unrelenting anxiety, and he relaxed slightly into the canvas chair. His mouth quirked slyly as he looked her up and down appreciatively, welcoming the distraction, until he remembered.

“Wait a minute. I heard them,” Dean gestured at the other people milling around, “call you Pam, too.”

“What? You think you get special privileges just for being Mr. Tall, Dark, and Gorgeous?” Pamela smacked his arm playfully, smiling.

Shaking his head, Dean chuckled, heat rising to his cheeks. He couldn’t remember being so off of his game since his first audition. “Yeah, sorry. I just, uh – “

“First timer, sweetheart?”

Dean huffed. “Not quite.”

“Well, don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you,” Pam said, arming herself with a vat of foundation and a foam pad. “We’ll give Dr. Sexy a run for his money.”

At _Dr. Sexy_ , Dean could feel his jaw go slack again, and the tremor in his hands returned with a vengeance. _In less than an hour, I’ll be with the man himself_.

The last time he had seen such a look of utter fear in a person’s eyes, he had been threatening to show the photos from Sammy’s princess phase to his brother's then-girlfriend, now-fiancé, Jessica. Only now, it was there, creeping in his own eyes, reflected back to him in the mirror.

 _Son of a bitch_.  

Dean was a sweaty, disgusting disaster. He felt sorry that Pam had to touch him.

It still hadn’t quite sunk in that the big day had finally arrived. When his agent, Benny, had called him weeks ago, and said, “ _Winchester, you’re gonna owe me your left nut when I tell you what I worked out for you_ ,” it took days to sink in. “ _You’re gonna be on Dr. Sexy, M.D. With a_ scene _. With_ lines _._ ” And he had almost passed out with Benny’s next words, “ _With the head honcho himself_.”

And now, here he sat: Hysterical Man in Waiting Room. At least he already had the first half of that role down pat.

 _I’m gonna fucking die_ , he whined internally _._

Dean squirmed in the makeup chair, stilling when Pamela gave him A Look. In his pocket, his phone suddenly buzzed against his thigh, and when he unconsciously looked to her for permission, she grinned smugly, approving.

“By all means.” She twirled a makeup brush expertly in one hand for emphasis.

The notifications informed him that, in the frenzied, caffeinated blur of the morning, he had missed several messages, and Dean thumbed quickly through his recent texts as Pamela’s brush tickled high at his cheekbones.

 _Knock it outta the park, brother_ , from Benny.

 _OMG plz don’t spaz out when you see HIM.  
ANd make sure to get pics for the love of Loki, _ from Charlie.

 _Call Dean._  
 _Dean._  
 _Google How do I send a fork ING message with this God Dan phone_ , from Bobby, and an unheard voicemail from, Dean presumed, the same.

 _Break a leg, Dean!_  
 _And your name is Dean._  
 _Dean Winchester._  
 _Remember that when you meet “Dahhcter Sex-eeey.”_  
 _I typed it like you’ve always said it._  
 _Every damn time._  
 _For years._  
 _With the drool._  
 _Your name is Dean._  
 _I’m reminding you bc you’re inevitably going to forget when you_ – and, punching at his phone, the rest of Sam’s messages were lost to blissful darkness. He was definitely sending his precious little brother’s princess photos to Jess as soon as he got home.

“And you,” Pam proclaimed with a sharp _tweek_ to his nose, “are all set!” A small pout settled upon her face as she shook her head. “A goddamn shame I had to cover up those freckles, though. A crime against humanity!” she moaned dramatically, as she turned away to reorganize her kit.

Dean chuckled as he heaved himself out of the chair.

“Well, uh, thanks, then.” He waved awkwardly as he shuffled away.

“Hey!” When Dean turned, Pamela was leaning against her station, arms crossed. She curled a finger at him, _come here, you_ , beckoning him back. Her eyes were genuine, and all notes of teasing were gone from her voice when she assured him, “You’re gonna be great. Just do what you know how to do.”

“Thanks, Pam.” Dean gave her a grateful smile as she patted his cheek, but as he turned to walk away he felt a sharp tug at the back pocket of his jeans.

Pamela held her hands up, all innocence. “Just wanted to give you my card. In case you ever want to grab a beer, catch some good music.” And suddenly, that sharp glint returned to her eyes. “Or. _Whatever_.” She winked at him as she walked past, whistling what he could’ve sworn was _Stairway to Heaven_ as she disappeared into the crowd.

Dean smirked. “Huh.” At least he had something to show for today, if everything else went to hell. He looked at his watch; it was almost time. _Oh god_. He decided to make one last stop at craft service before he banished himself to a dark corner of the stage to collect himself before his call.

The table had been recently replenished, and a plate of sugary, oozing jelly doughnuts was calling his name. He shoved one in his mouth to hold, guiltily sparing a thought for all of Pamela’s hard work, as he refilled his coffee cup.

 _You know what. Screw it_ , he thought, determined to strum up some of the patented Winchester fortitude. _Dr. Sexy ain’t any different from me. I’m awesome._ _I’m a professional._ And _I got friggin’ agent; I bet he didn’t even have one when he was in my shoes._

And okay, so Dean only had an agent because he and Benny had been friends since junior high.

And so far, the most illustrious _professional_ roles on his resume were Crime Scene Victim #2 and Man with Red Shorts.

And he’s had an all-out crush on Dr. Sexy since that first scene in that first episode of _Dr. Sexy, M.D._ , the one where he friggin’ bursts through the doors of the E.R., camera panning up from his cowboy boots, leather smooth as butter, to the heavy cut of his bristled jaw, to his thick hair billowing in the breeze, carrying a child he had saved single-handedly from a burning building on his way to work, desperately in need of a multi-organ transplant, and he opened his mouth and spoke with that rugged, commanding voice that would make _anyone_ –

Oh yeah, he was definitely going to blow it.

So engrossed was Dean in his mental anguish and jelly doughnut, he didn’t notice the distinct, crisp, _clip clop_ of handcrafted leather boots approach the table until it was too late.

“Good spread today, huh, buddy?”

In that moment, Dean could swear he could feel each individual molecule of blood drain from his face as he froze in place, mid-chew. The synapses in his brain ceased to fire, reverting to primitive function in his abrupt state of crisis, _if you don’t move he can’t see you_. Dean wasn’t sure how much time had passed – not much, as the man hadn’t yet noticed Dean had either seemingly turned into a statue or suffered a mild stroke in the time it took to scan the selection – before he regained his senses, suddenly uncomfortably aware that he was gaping at the other actor, jelly and sugar smeared sticky on his lower lip, crushing his Styrofoam cup in a white-knuckled grip, splashes of coffee biting threateningly at his fingers. He swallowed heavily, collecting himself, and answered in a poised and intelligent fashion.

He grunted.

“Coffee’s okay, but you should try the rolls; they’re incredible,” _Doctor Sexy_ said as he picked at the plates and popped a grape into his mouth, oblivious to Dean’s struggle.

Dean nodded.

“Well, gotta get back.” _Doctor Sexy_ looked at Dean straight in the eyes then, that brilliant, confident smile unfolding across his lips. Inside, Dean was screaming, _What are you doing? What is wrong with you? SAM SAID YOUR NAME IS DEAN REMEMBER SAY SOMETHING HOLY SHIT_.

Suddenly springing into life, a goofy grin launched across his face as he bobbed his head in solidarity, and he laughed, too much and too loudly ( _He didn’t say anything_ funny, _idiot!_ ), incredibly aware of his hands but seemingly not in control of them any longer. So, Dean believed, he wasn’t truly to blame when the hand holding his doughnut swung to the side and immediately struck something solid. Warm. Breathing. The other actor’s eyes widened comically as he followed the line of Dean’s arm to where it was attached to his unsuspecting victim.

_Oh. My. Fucking. Shit._

Dean moved his hand, now full of flaky, goopy remains, and turned slowly to the newcomer. His eyes immediately zeroed in on the man’s chest, his _white_ button-down _, of course_. Red jelly was smeared high across the pristine expanse of his shirt, giving the gruesome effect of the man having been stabbed in the chest. Dean could feel the man’s gaze like a physical weight, and the sparking static noise in his ears gave way to the snorting, stilted laughter of the surrounding crew members.

Dean’s eyes cautiously roved up to the man’s face, taking in his chapped lips, the full bow of them bent into a frown; the endless, ethereal blue of his eyes, narrowed and sharp; his dark, unforgivable case of bedhead. Briefly, Dean felt an unmistakable, inexplicable sense of calm trickling beneath the panic, but it was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

“I’m. I’m so, _so_ sorry, dude,” he stammered. “Let me, uh,” Dean waved his full hands around ineffectually before looking to the other man helplessly. He only stared back at Dean, silent. “Um.”

The blue-eyed crew member took that as his cue to leave, apparently, as he immediately brushed past Dean without a word. The sea of people, most with their phones held out in either documentation- or selfie-mode, parted as he stomped through them, away from the set.

“Oh boy! You better watch yourself now, pal!” laughed the leading man, as he clapped a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Why?” Dean looked at him, numb. “Who was that?”

The actor stilled in dumfounded amusement. “You don’t know? _That_ was Castiel Novak.” There was a meaningful pause, accompanied by a pointed look. “The director.”

Dean felt his stomach bottom out. “Oh, no,” he croaked.

“Oh, _yes_.” The actor grinned. “Stay righteous, my friend.” He patted Dean’s shoulder as he walked by, a cheerful _clip_ countering the _clop_ of his boots as he departed.

Dean was so disheartened, he didn’t even notice the little voice squealing in the deepest part of his mind:

_He TOUCHED me._

 

*      *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *

 

Suddenly, Dean came to his senses at the anxious shout of, “Security! Where the hell are they?” from one of the bystanders, dressed in white.

His lip trembled in frustration, in grief, even while his blood boiled with unsatiated fury. When Dean reached out, even he didn’t know if it was in concession or aggression.

“There’s just been a misunderstanding!” he said, closing in on the gathered crowd. “It was a mistake! I just want –“

Suddenly, the air was knocked out of Dean as he was slammed against the wall, pressed into it by a broad-shouldered man with wild, dark eyes.

“I highly recommend that you calm down, sir, or you’ll be escorted from the premises.” He grinned dangerously. “By _me_.”

Dean struggled against him, but to no avail. “Screw you,” he spat. “I’ve got every right –“

“You’re on _my_ turf on,” the man hissed. “ _I_ decide what happens next.” Dean stared back defiantly, but couldn’t help but notice how, nose to nose as they were, the man’s breath smelled like cinnamon when he exhaled; how his strong hands wrapped around his wrists with just the right amount of pressure, not gripping hard enough to hurt but enough to hint that it could; how one of his solid thighs was wedged against his hip, holding him firmly in place.

The only sounds in the deathly quiet were Dean’s labored panting, and the _creak_ of the other man’s cowboy boots as he shifted and breathed.

 _Oh_ , yeah, Dean owed Benny _big time_.

“Cut, cut!”

A bell rang shrilly, and the chatter started up immediately. Dr Sexy, M.D., pulled away from Dean, transitioning easily into Dr. Sexy, T.A. (The Actor). Dean, on the other hand, still struggling to control his breathing, had been fighting to stay in character from the moment he was slammed against the wall.

“Nice one, man.” He threw up his fists, punching at Dean playfully. “Hope I didn’t hurt ya!” he sang, laughing.

“Aha, nope, nope,” Dean chuckled breathlessly. Glancing to the side, he saw Castiel in a deep discussion with the first A.D. and production designer, taking in the low, unhappy rumble of his voice, the tense line of shoulders. “Not sure he’d agree with you.”

Dr. Sexy, T.A. looked over his shoulder. “N’aw, that’s just Castiel. He can be…”

“Picky?”

“Kind of a dick,” the actor finished. “Gets the job done, though, and done well. Truth be told, he could probably be doing a lot more than shitting around on primetime dramas, you know?”

When they looked over again, Castiel was quickly advancing on them, notes in hand, headset around his neck, and scowl firmly in place.

“Uh, oh,” he breathed, looking at Dean. “Godspeed, kid.”

Castiel stopped, giving them both an equally irritated look. “I was under the impression that we all wanted to leave at some point today.”

Dean looked to the leading man for guidance, but the actor purposefully evaded him, looking at anything but him.

“Um –”

“That wasn’t a question, Dean,” Castiel growled, before turning his attention to Dr. Sexy, T.A.

“Was I mistaken in thinking you are the star of this show?”

The other actor squared his shoulders, insulted. “What do you mean by that?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“I was simply wondering how you felt about being shown up by _an extra_ on the show in which you’ve been the title character for almost a decade?”

Dean could feel his eyebrows inching up towards his hairline. Shit, maybe he had been going about this acting thing the wrong way. Maybe he should go around town chucking pastries at Martin Scorsese.

The proud, grateful warmth in his cheeks promptly drained with Castiel’s next words.

“You’re being far too gentle with him.”

“Wait, wha –“ Dean tried, but the director ignored him.

“Every take, it becomes more and more painfully obvious that this is the ninth season of a mediocre medical drama. You have to sell it, because the camera certainly isn’t buying it!”

Dr. Sexy, T.A. nodded, mouth thin, clearly placating him and not actually agreeing. Castiel narrowed his eyes at the actor, and Dean had to admit, the guy wasn’t fooling anyone.

“Fine.” Castiel swung his sharp gaze back to Dean. “Do you have insurance?”

“ _What_?”

“Are you insured in case of workplace injury?”

“Uh, yeah, but why is that –“ Dean stopped as Castiel dropped his sheaf of paper to the ground, then stripped his headset off and did the same. “What’re you –“

It was all Dean could get out before Castiel’s hands were fisted in his shirt and he was being shoved backward, hitting the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of his lungs. Instinct had him struggling, hands closing tight around Castiel’s forearms, _who the fuck does this guy think he is?,_ but the director held his own surprisingly well, using his full weight and momentum to counter Dean’s indignant anger and lack of leverage.

“This,” Castiel pushed his fists against Dean’s chest for emphasis, shook him a little, and Dean’s head _thunked_ against the wall, “is what I want to see.”

As he looked over his shoulder to see if Dr. Sexy, T.A. was watching, Dean began to settle from his _fight or FIGHT_ adrenaline rush, taking stock of his current position. Castiel had changed out of his stained button-down and into a grey t-shirt, which was soft and wearing thin beneath Dean’s fingertips. He was pressed firmly into Dean’s front, closer than Dr. Sexy had been, and Dean could feel their belt buckles catch when he exhaled. When Castiel shifted, Dean could feel the bunch and release of each muscle, and when he spoke at the other actor, Dean could feel his graveled rumble like thunder in his chest.

The cool calm he felt when he first met – if _met_ was the correct term – Castiel returned with a rush, warring with a rising heat originating from the core of him. Before he could decide if it was a bad idea, he pushed at Castiel, just to see what he would do.

Just because he could.

Purely out of reflex – and it must have been reflex, because the director was still speaking to the leading man – Castiel immediately pushed back, pinning him more firmly against the wall. The promise of _that_ had Dean stifling a whimper.

“Like –“ Castiel continued, until he finally swung back around to meet Dean’s eyes full-on, for the first time since their unceremonious introduction. The tension sparking between them was palpable. Dean’s breath caught, wondering what his face was betraying as Castiel cocked his head, blue eyes still intense but gentler somehow, fists flexing in Dean’s shirt. He blinked hard at Dean, once, twice, then cleared his throat. His mouth worked uselessly for a moment before finishing, “Like this,” softer, deeper than Dean thought possible.

When Dean unconsciously licked his lips, Castiel’s eyes tracked the movement before he visibly collected himself, pushed off of Dean, dipped down to collect his things, and stalked away without a second glance.

Dean slumped against the wall, still pinned there by the residual warmth of Castiel’s body.

 

Their next take was their last.

 

*      *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *

 

Against his better judgement, or maybe because he had some sort of career death-wish, Dean loitered around the outskirts of the stage after he wrapped, passing the time by informing his friends and family of his exploits on the set of _Dr. Sexy, M.D.,_ and how he probably needed to find another career, stat.

_“So then I nailed him with the doughnut, right in the chest…”_

Benny had sworn a lot, made a weird groaning noise that Dean had only heard once before, when they played high school ball and Benny had taken a line drive straight to the junk, said, “ _Of all people, why,_ why, _Castiel Novak, brother? I don't get paid enough to deal with this shit.”_

Charlie did her little snorting laugh that he always thought was adorable, even in the face of his own humiliation, and he made sure to tell her so, especially since he was outside of punching distance. Then, good old Charlie, told him it would all be fine, that he was _“way more awesome than Dr. Sexy, sheesh, than Shanter_ ,” and that an accident was an accident, and he should totally tap that. Then she wanted to know if he had a chance to meet Nurse Regan or Doctor Madison.

Bobby called him an idjit, as he knew he would, then proceeded to remind him that he had a job at Singer Salvage whenever The Incident – and Dean could _hear_ the capital letters in that – came back to bite him in the ass. And then he told him he was proud of Dean, and Dean absolutely did not tear up.

And Sam. Sam didn’t say a goddamn word, because he couldn’t breathe through his laughter. Jess, however, comforted him and scolded Sam, maintaining her spot as Most Awesome In-Law of All Time. Dean warned her to check her email later, as she’d be receiving a large file full of Sam Winchester’s Greatest Childhood Photo Hits as soon as he got home.

When he looked up from his phone, the sky was starting to turn, little pinpricks of starlight just visible in the creeping darkness. People were beginning to trickle out of the stage, some of them praising _Director Novak, a fuckin’ miracle worker, how we wrap on time I don’t know_. Dean began pacing in the shadows of the stars’ trailers, restless. He almost missed it when the familiar figure in a frankly awful trenchcoat, hair wild and unruly, strode by him.

“Oh, hey! Castiel!”

At his name, the director turned around, and Dean jogged to meet him.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel quirked his head, perplexed. “Why are you still here?”

“I just, um.” Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Castiel’s presence unsettled and soothed him, made his hackles rise even as his body itched to be closer. “I just wanted to apologize. For, you know,” he waved a hand in the direction of the stage. “Didn’t really get a chance to, before.”

“You waited around, just for that?”

 _No, I also wanna see why the hell you’re makin’ me feel this way, and if you can hold me down in –_ “Yup.”

Castiel seemed to deflate slightly, but Dean wasn’t sure if it was just wishful thinking. “Oh. Then. Apology accepted.”

The director turned to walk away, but Dean was feeling a little reckless, so he grabbed his shoulder, spinning him so they faced each other once again.

“You knew my name,” Dean said.

“I’m sorry?” The lines in Castiel’s brow deepened in confusion.

“You knew my name,” Dean repeated. “I’ve been on a lot of sets over the years, and not one person that mattered gave a shit about my name. Even if I told ‘em twenty times. It was always _Hey you_ or _Dude in the exterminator suit_ or _Guy with the hairnet_. Never _Dean_.”

Castiel squinted at him. “Hairnet?”

Dean huffed and shook his head. “That’s not,” he waved his hand, “that’s not the point. No one in there cared who I was. To everyone else, I was the guy Dr. Sexy roughed up. I was _Hysterical Man in Waiting Room_.”

Castiel’s eyes slid away, his face scrunched up in doubt. “Well, you weren’t really _that_ until the final take.”

“Hey – wait, did you just make a joke?”

“I am capable, so it is likely,” the director smirked. “Although, the most amusing statements often have a seed of truth to them, so…” He watched Dean before continuing. “You _did_ ruin my shirt. I believe inquiring about one’s assailant is perfectly acceptable.”

Dean’s mouth quirked in a small smile, and he felt the most confident he had all day when he replied, “But that’s not why you remembered.”

“No,” Castiel agreed, “Not _completely_.” He moved closer to Dean, totally disregarding his personal space. Not that Dean could find it in himself to care. “You have so much potential, Dean Winchester. I could see it in you from the moment you stepped on the stage. I’ve been on so many sets, worked with so many actors… so when I say that you are a beacon, that you _shine_ , Dean,” he shrugged absently, “that _means_ something.”

Dean looked away, breath coming in staccato bursts, surprised by his blatant honesty and the strong conviction in his voice. “I don’t know about that,” he murmured.

Castiel leaned in closer. “And _that_ is your problem, Dean. You have no faith.” He laid a hand upon Dean’s shoulder, and Dean could feel the heat of it through his leather jacket. “You are your only obstacle. You’ll succeed when you accept that you are _good_ , when you _believe_ it.”

The director’s hand fell away from Dean as he straightened, and then tipped his chin up slightly. “I also apologize.”

“Huh?”

“For throwing you into the wall.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, kinda took _knocking some sense into someone_ to a new level.” He bit at his lower lip, looking to the ground before glancing up at Castiel through his lashes. _Just_ do _it, Winchester. You cannot possibly fuck this day up any worse_. “You should make it up to me.”

Castiel looked so startled, Dean had to laugh. “I’m friggin’ starving, dude! What’dya say we go grab a bite somewhere? You can tell me the tricks of the trade, who’s the biggest asshole in the biz, whatever.”

Castiel was silent, considering, eyes slightly suspicious.

“Or, you know, we could just eat?” Dean tried. Frankly, Dean was ready to do whatever it took to buy him one more minute with Castiel. But when the wary expression that had settled onto the director’s face didn’t slip away, the warning bell in his mind started to chirp, _abort, abort_ , and Dean backpedaled. “But hey, who am I, you know, it’s cool if you don’t –“

“No,” he said, firmly, the same way he had called _Cut_ and _Action_ throughout the day. “No, I’d. I’d like that.”

A wide grin blossomed across Dean’s face, triggering an answering, albeit smaller, smile from Castiel. “Awesome.”

They sauntered toward the parking lot in silence, until Dean paused and cleared his throat, suddenly awkward.

“And about what you said. About. You know.” He hesitated until understanding bloomed from the depths Castiel’s eyes, glittering bright with a nearby floodlight. “Just, uh. Thanks, Cas.”

The director’s mouth turned up at Dean’s easy use of the diminutive. “You’re welcome, Dean.”

“Okay, then.” Dean dipped his head to hide the heat he felt rising in his cheeks, his shy smile, but when he looked up again, he could tell Cas hadn’t missed it. _See, I’m not that good an actor. Least, not around you, it seems._ That thought didn’t bother him like he thought it should. Dean rubbed his hands together briskly, clapping once before holding them out in an invitation to continue. “Let’s go.”

Together, they walked through the gate and, turning a corner, were enveloped by the night.

 

Cut, wrap, end-scene.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me you didn’t sleep with that director.”
> 
> “Gee, Sammy. Good morning to you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on [Tumblr](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/post/82068229295/in-the-can-chapter-2-deancas-au)!

 

“Tell me you didn’t sleep with that director.”

“Gee, Sammy. Good morning to you, too.”

Dean made a show of sliding his own coffee cup from its place in the cardboard carrying tray he held before unceremoniously shoving the tray into the towering mass of his little brother. He squeezed past him, through the open doorway of Sam’s house.

“That’s the last time I stand in a line of suited-up, under-caffeinated asshats just to get you your grande vanilla mocha swirl, made from free-range, grass-fed coffee beans, with chocloate sprinkles and an extra pump of douchebag.”

“Pretty sure you confused my order with yours again, jerk.”

Sam elbowed the door closed carefully, cradling the tray and its two remaining cups like a newborn, watching it with an adoring gaze to match. Dean rolled his eyes.

“Where’s the brains behind this operation?”

“Making you French toast.”

Dean’s clapped his hands happily. “Jess,” he called, “you are awesome!”

“I know it!” she answered from the kitchen, voice slightly muffled by the thin wall. “You are my favorite, after all!”

“Hey!” Sam pouted.

Dean punched his brother’s shoulder, making the tray rock dangerously in his arms. Sam shot him a deadly look, and Dean shrugged, smug. “What can ya do, Sammy? I told you she had good taste.”

The mouth-watering scent of cinnamon and maple heralded Jess’ approach, and she turned the corner with a heaping plate of food.

“Aww,” she cooed upon seeing the forlorn, over-the-top expression on her fiancé’s face. Depositing the plate safely on the table, already set with plates and silverware, she reached up to tangle her fingers in Sam’s hair. “Dean’s my favorite _brother-in-law_. You’re my favorite _Winchester_.” She rolled up onto the balls of her feet to kiss the frown from his face.

Ever the consummate guest, Dean did what any other older, wiser, far more respectable sibling would do.

He gagged. Loudly, and dramatically. Never let it be said his stint as _Choking Victim_ on that Boy Scout First Aid instructional video (straight to VHS!) was a waste.

Jessica spun around to slap Dean’s hands from where they were grasping at his throat, laughing.

“C’mon, let’s eat before it gets cold.” She eased the tray from Sam’s grip, muttering, “And gimme my damn caffeine,” as she sat.

The brothers jostled each other playfully as they claimed their seats.

Dean closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, the thick, heavy smell of spice and sugar filling his lungs, the warmth of it settling into his bones.

 _God damn, I should potentially ruin my career every day if this is what it gets me_.

He giddily stabbed at the stack of French toast, carefully arranging the portion on his plate. Concentrating, he poured the syrup steadily, watching for the moment the spongy bread stopped absorbing it, and letting it go two seconds longer so it just started to pool in the dips and crevices, all the while ignoring Sam’s predictably disturbed stare. For all of their youthful hours logged in diners, Dean had never been able to get Sam to understand that breakfast was a friggin’ _experience_.

The face his little brother made, to this day, when he heard the phrase _pig in a poke_ , though, was worth every bout of heartburn and every greasy piece of undercooked bacon he ever had.

He moaned appreciatively at the first bite, rolling the soggy bread against his cheeks with his tongue, savoring it, before swallowing –

“So,” Jess said, waggling her eyebrows suggestively, “did you sleep with that guy?”

Dean hacked out a breath as the French toast attempted a retreat down his windpipe, and _thank fuck_ he actually watched that Boy Scout First Aid instructional video (straight to VHS!), since his _beloved_ brother and future sister-in-law were too busy cackling to save his damned life.

Never let it be said his stint as _Choking Victim_ was a waste, holy fucking shit.

“Why,” he gasped, thumping on his chest, “is this the question of the day?”

Sam wiped his eyes. “Because-“

Jess snorted, setting him off again.

Dean glared at them both in turn, sticky fingers twitching unconsciously on the handle of his butter knife.

“Because,” Sam tried again after several moments. “The last we heard from you, you were hanging out for hours in a parking lot like a stalker, just to apologize to some guy for messing up his shirt.” He leaned forward, sarcastically serious. “And you didn’t even mention Doctor Sexy’s cowboy boots once.”

Dean kicked him under the table, feeling vindicated as it jerked, silverware clattering, when Sam flinched away.

“ _And_ ,” Jess added, “you didn’t send my blackmail pictures of Sam last night like you promised!”

“Which means,” Sam continued, undeterred by the blooming bruise undoubtedly decorating his shin, and, gee, it sure was nice to see the fruits of that law school tuition in practice, “you were too ‘busy,’ didn’t get home last night, or got back too late – or _early_ – to be useful.”

They were mirror images, tipping toward one another, arms crossed, satisfied looks and matching laughter-induced tear tracks down their cheeks, clever faces framed by their long locks.

 _Goddamn_ , Sammy needed to trim that mop of his.

“Okay, one, if I knew this was going to be the Spanish Inquisition instead of the normal get-together, I would’ve worn red, and two, fuck you both.”

He dug into his syrup-laden stack of French toast, refusing to acknowledge the heavy weight of their knowing gazes.

Until Sam started drumming his fingertips on the tabletop. Dean dropped his fork with a disgruntled sigh.

“ _Nothing happened_ , okay? Jesus Christ.”

Sam and Jess raised their eyebrows expectantly, and Dean groaned.

 _Breakfast was a trap. I knew it._ He shook his head. _‘Let’s have breakfast, Dean.’ ‘You can tell us how Doctor Sexy was, Dean.’ ‘We love you and want to make you French toast and celebrate your biggest role ever, Dean.’_

Liars. He was in a family of no-good, People’s Court-wannabe liars.

“Fine! We went out to dinner. We shot the shit. The guy knows a lot. He gave me some advice. We split the check. I tried to pay for his dry cleaning bill; he wouldn’t take it. We shook hands. I said thanks for everything. Said _goodbye_. Went home. I went to bed, ‘cause it was a long, stressful fucking day. I got up early to go to your hippie café and get you your stupid coffee the morning after I humiliated myself on the biggest day of my life ‘cause I’m fucking awesome like that. Happy?”

Jess looked contrite.

Sam, on the other hand…

“Yeah, but did you sleep with him?”

Dean balled up his napkin and pitched at his brother’s forehead. It bounced into Sam’s coffee cup, _sans_ lid, and Dean grinned victoriously as he fished it out in a panic.

“Okay, okay, boys,” Jess placated. She held out a shaker of powdered sugar to him as a peace offering. “What are you up to today?”

Dean took the shaker, patting it firmly over his plate, watching smugly as Sam scowled and squeezed out his sodden napkin into his cup.

“Nothin’ much. I have a meeting with Benny in a couple hours, so I got just enough time to show you…” He trailed off as he tipped his chair away from the table, digging into the pocket of his jeans. When he successfully retrieved his prize, he shook it enticingly. Sam froze as understanding bloomed in Jess’ eyes, a wicked smile spreading across her lips.

“Is that…?”

“I promised you pictures, Jess.” Dean turned to Sam, waved the flash drive underneath his nose, smirking devilishly at his mortified expression. “And I always keep my promises.”

Revenge was a dish best served with maple syrup, after all.

 

*      *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *

 

"Please tell me you didn’t,” Benny rhythmically jerked his cuffed hand weakly, half-heartedly pushed his tongue to bulge his cheek, “with him.”

“Wow, okay. Didn’t need to see that.”

Dean dropped onto the hideous, tattered couch his agent insisted on keeping in his office, despite the fact that Dean never failed to remind him that it smelled like jambalaya and bad decisions.

“Oh my god, you _did_.” Benny drawled, and swiped a hand down his face. “ _Castiel Novak_ , Dean. Of all people –“

“Dude, what the hell? I didn’t say anything!”

“We’ve known each other for over half of our lives, Winchester, you don’t _need_ to say anything.”

Dean whipped one of the decorative pillows adorning the couch – Benny’s wife’s attempt at salvaging a lost cause, marital compromise evident in every fraying thread and newly added cushion – at Benny’s slumped form. It bounced off his back and to the floor; Benny didn’t budge.

“Andrea’s gonna beat your ass if she sees you tossin’ those things around again,” Benny warned from the shelter of his arms.

“They’re called _throw pillows_ , man. It’s in the name.”

Even so, Dean snatched it off the floor, glancing nervously through the window in Benny’s office in case Andrea was lurking around outside, waiting to pounce.

It might have happened once or ten times before.

Benny sighed, and sat up only to collapse heavily against the back of his chair. He stared at Dean, shaking his head, gaping in disbelief, before he grimaced and covered his eyes with a groan.

“Jesus, Benny, eat a friggin’ Tums.”

“Novak is a _someone_ , Dean. You don’t just jump in the sac –“

“Yeah, which is why I thought you’d be happy I had some one-on-one time with him.” Dean rolled his eyes at Benny’s distraught expression at the mention of _one -on-one_. “It was _dinner._ You think I’m stupid?”

Benny tilted his head, considering.

“Ha ha.” Dean folded his arms across his stomach, stretched out to rest his feet on top of the scattered papers littering Benny’s desk. “I made a shitty first impression, okay? He remembered me, and I couldn’t let him remember me like _that_.”

Perking up, Benny peeked through his fingers. “Castiel Novak remembered you?”

“Yeah. Actually, he, uh,” Dean winced as he felt a blush creeping up the back of his neck, and averted his gaze toward his hands. “He said I’m a good actor. One of the best he’s worked with.”

The silence stretched a beat too long, and when Dean looked up from his in-depth study of his fingernails, Benny was leaning forward, face scrunched in doubt. “ _Really_?”

“You’re my agent! You’re supposed to think the same thing!”

Benny shrugged, unmoved.

“Wow. You know what, I owed you a six-pack from last weekend. You’re not getting that back.”

“That’s alright. It was left over from when you brought it to me the time before.”

“Sometimes I wonder why I should trust you.”

“’Cause I’m the one that knows the way in this land of monsters, brother.”

Dean huffed, the corners of his mouth twitching up in a smile. “Anyway, he gave me some pretty great advice.”

“Well, everyone’s got their sights on that guy these days. They’re just dyin’ to get a hold of him. Hope something got through that thick skull a’yers. His word’s probably as good as the Man Upstairs.”

Dean bit his lip to reign in the laughter suddenly burning at the center of his chest. “You’re gonna like this then. He asked me if I had an agent. I said, _I guess you can call him that._ ” Benny’s eyes narrowed. “He said, _You might want to consider getting a better one. Perhaps one with some experience._ ”  

Benny was still, save for a quick, irritated twitch of his nose. “Actually, I heard the guy was kind of a dick.”

Tears streamed down Dean’s face as he howled his amusement. The creak of Benny’s chair was the only warning he got before his feet were shoved roughly off of the desk, breath cut short in surprise as he sprawled awkwardly against the awful floral of the sofa.

The agent grabbed a manila folder from where Dean made his impromptu footrest, and fanned himself with it haughtily.

“I suppose you won’t be needing this then, since you’re gonna be getting a new agent and all.”

Dean eyed him suspiciously. “What’s that?”

“Your door outta Tinseltown Purgatory, brother.” He shrugged, nonchalant, as he turned ominously toward the paper shredder next to his desk. “But since I’m such a shitty agent and all –“

“Hey, hey, I told him you were good people.” Dean snatched the folder from Benny’s unresisting grip. “You blood-sucker,” he added under his breath as he scanned the papers.

_  
INT. SALOON - HIGH NOON_

_MARSHAL EASTWOOD enters through the swinging doors. The room is quiet, mostly empty. He pauses at a DRUNK MAN slumped over a table before continuing to the bar, where ELKINS and DARLA are talking. ELKINS turns to MARSHAL EASTWOOD._

_ELKINS  
What’ll you have?_

_EASTWOOD  
I’ll have your top shelf whiskey –_

  
“Benny, what’s this?” Dean’s heart thumped hard against his ribs as he struggled to tamp down the rising hope, but _oh my god, oh my god, Doctor Sexy and now this?_

Benny’s voice was gentle, pride weaved throughout his words. “You know what it is, Dean.”

“But, but, fucking _Frontierland_ , Benny, they didn’t call me –“

“Yeah, well, they’ve been having all kinds of problems, directors, locations, you name it.” Fingers appeared over the top of the folder, pulling it away from Dean’s face. “They’re also re-casting. You must’ve impressed someone on set yesterday, ‘cause this was waiting for me this morning.” He rolled his chair closer to Dean, and when he spoke, low and soft, Dean could hear the bayou in the long, smooth drag of his vowels. “HBO, TV movie with some money behind it, lot of hype. This could be it, brother.”

Dean exhaled harshly. “Tell me I’m not reading for Drunk Man.”

Benny leaned back, laughing, clapped a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“You ain’t readin’ for Drunk Man, _Marshal_.”

“I’m gonna be a cowboy,” Dean whispered in disbelief.

“Easy there, buddy, you ain’t a cowboy yet.”

“No, Benny. This is _mine_ , man. This is what we’ve been waiting for.” And maybe this was what Cas had been talking about the night before, when he told Dean to have some faith in himself, in his talent, that his gift already spoke for itself, but would be undeniable once he had the confidence that came with simply _believing_. “When’s the audition?”

Benny sighed and braced himself. “It’s tomorrow morning.”

Yeah, so screw Castiel and his George Michael _Faith_ chorus.

He was royally boned.

At Dean’s stricken look, Benny held up his hands apologetically.

“This is an eleventh hour thing, Dean. They’ve already seen everyone else. Like I said, you must’ve impressed someone, and they want to squeeze you in to try it before they make the final decision.” Shrugging, he added, “If it helps, I think that says a lot about what they think of ya already.”

Dean nodded, “Yeah, I guess.” Taking a deep breath, he tapped the papers against his knee, resolute. “Guess it’s time to saddle up, then, partner.”

His friend shook his head in exasperation, lip turned in uncertainty. “I’m not sure I’m gonna be able to work with Cowboy Dean. It was bad enough when we were twelve.”

 _Marshal Eastwood. Shootouts and horses and stunts. Cowboy hats and serapes. Boots that would make Doctor Sexy_ weep _to rival Dean’s own friggin’ flawless One Perfect Tear routine._

Adrenaline rush fading and being placed with a rising excitement, Dean grinned and winked, adjusting an imaginary hat.

“Yippie-ki-yay, mother-“

The rest was lost as flying throw pillow hit him square in the nose.

 

*      *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *

 

“You hooked up with the hot guy, right? Course you did, I want all the deets!”

Dean sighed and closed his eyes for a moment before replying.

“Did you even _look_ at the caller ID, Charlie? That was like, half a ring.” He stood over his stove, using his free hand to push a spatula through the eggs cooking in the sauté pan. Distracted, he mumbled, “And ‘deet’ is a friggin’ bug spray, by the way.”

“Whatever you say, old man. And no, I didn’t check the caller ID, that’s how I answer all of my calls. I just straight-up ask all of my friends, co-workers, and stray telemarketers how their sexy-times went. It was _super_ awkward when my boss called –“

“Okay, okay.” Dean chuckled. “I get it.”

For the next several moments, only the sizzle of the eggs and occasional scrape of the spatula against the pan’s surface filled the silence. His eyes crinkled in confusion, and he pulled the phone away to make sure he didn’t lose her. But no, the Queen of Moondoor still smiled cheerfully up at him from the screen, call timer ticking away.

“Uhhh… Charlie?”

“I’m waiting.”

_Am I on Jerry Springer or something? What the ever-loving hell?_

At this rate, they were all going to make him develop some type of Dr. Phil-worthy complex.

“Why is everyone assuming I slept with him?”

“Uh, well, maybe because you were creepin’ on the guy –“

“Jesus Christ, I was _not_ –“

“And,” Charlie spoke over him, “you sounded totally into him, and when you sound that into someone, it usually doesn’t take much for you to _really_ get into them, if you know what I mean.”

Dean sputtered, swearing as he jerked the spatula and hot egg splashed onto his exposed forearm.

“ _And_ ,” she continued, teasing tone gone now, “it’s been a while since you’ve been like that about someone.”

“Yeah, well,” he mumbled, rubbing the yolky mess onto his jeans, “kinda tired of the goodbyes, so…”

“’Always the adios,’ yeah, I know,” Charlie finished, sympathetic.

Dean could see her in his mind’s eye, twirling her long red hair between her fingers, perched on her replica Captain’s chair that Dean wasn’t jealous of in the least, and never claimed for himself when he was at her apartment. She won the thing in an online contest, one that Dean definitely did not enter at least 217 times, with all of his own email accounts and most of Sam’s, much to the latter’s delight.

So maybe he was a _little_ jealous.

Dean tipped a bowl of freshly cut and sautéed peppers and sausage into the pan, then some shredded cheddar, listening to her breathe for a beat or two.

“It was a good night,” he offered, quietly, slightly shy, confused as to why because it was just _Charlie_ , geez. “He’s a smart guy. Seems like he knows everything, Charlie, I mean, like, he’d probably give Sammy a run for his money. He’s kind of weird – maybe just different? – nah, he’s weird, and you’d think for a director he’d be a little more in touch with pop culture shit, but,” Dean chuckled briefly at the memory, “he’s fucking funny as hell.” He paused to fold the egg mixture in half. “We closed the restaurant, Charlie. I completely lost track of the time,” he admitted.

“Sounds like a lot more than blue eyes and a pretty face.”

As he turned off the burner and stepped away, Dean knew he couldn’t blame the flush he could feel in his cheeks on the stove.

“Yeah, well, his car also blows and he has zero fashion sense.”

Charlie snorted. “Says the guy whose favorite color is plaid-hued plaid!”

“Shut up, it goes with everything.”

“Tell me again why you won’t let Benny get you a fashion consultant?”

“ _You’re_ my fashion consultant.”

“Which was your first mistake, bucko, seeing as how I think pointy ears are an acceptable workplace accessory.”

“They are if you’re an elf.”

“Totally,” she agreed. Then, “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Dean replied innocently.

For good measure, he made sure to clatter the plates together with little more _oomph_ as he slid one free from the cabinet.

Master Deflector, thy name is Winchester.

Charlie heaved a sigh. “Okay! Fine, I get it. Dean blue-screened with the too many _feelings_ error, try again later. At least tell me you’re seeing him again?”

“Dunno. Probably better to leave it alone, you know, whole casting couch vibe and all.”

“Dean – “

“Anyway, I just wanted to let you know, no _Game of Thrones_ tonight. I already left Sam a message.”

He swore he could hear Charlie’s brain screech to a halt as it whirred to quickly change tracks.

“Wha’? Nooooo,” she whined. “We were gonna celebrate _Dr. Sexy_! And the next episode’s the one where Daenerys –“

“I know, but I can’t.” Dean grinned, tentative excitement rushing up his spine again. “Last minute audition, first thing in the morning. I gotta work on some stuff, and try to get a little sleep. And,” he rushed to add as he heard Charlie take a breath, “that’s all I’m sayin’ about it. I don’t wanna jinx it. Just… keep your fingers crossed for this one.”

The sound crackled as Charlie blew into the mouthpiece, frustrated. “Well now I’m dying to know. Promise you’ll tell me when it’s done?”

“Yup, let’s just move our plans to tomorrow. I’ll tell you much beer to bring depending on how it goes.”

Actually, it’d probably be the same amount either way. The line between drowning his sorrows and imbibing in celebration was kind of murky.

“Very funny. I’ll let you get to work then.” A croaking growl burst through the connection, and she sounded more like Kermit than the other little green puppet when she finished, “Break a leg, you will.”

Dean almost lost his omelet to the floor mid-slide from the pan to his plate, disaster narrowly averted, he was laughing so hard.

“Charlie, you are so fucking bad at that!”

“And that’s why,” she lilted good-naturedly, “you’re the professional actor, my loyal handmaiden.”

Dean stuck his tongue out at the phone.

“Don’t think I didn’t hear that. Get to it! You’ll be awesome! Love you!”

“I know,” he replied, mouth quirking gently. “See ya tomorrow.”

With a beep, the call ended, and Dean shuffled, plate in hand, toward his couch, where his notes and papers were spread about. He clicked on the lamp for better light to read by, and dumped his phone and plate onto the coffee table, next to his laptop and glass of water.

The next time his phone sounded, he realized he had been so engrossed in practice and reading that he hadn’t noticed the sky turning dark through the open blinds, and that he definitely ran right through the newest episode of _Dr. Sexy_ without DVRing it.

Dammit. Now he was going to have to wait to see why Doctor Piccolo was screaming at the sexy interns for candy corn and a penknife in the preview.

His half-eaten, congealed omelet seemed to eye him dejectedly as he grabbed his phone.

_SAM  
Don’t want to call since you’re prbly busy. Just wanted to say I’m glad that watching all of those monkey movies is going to pay off._

Dean snorted, typing out a response.

_His name is Clyde._

The reply came mere milliseconds after he pressed send, too quick for Sam to have seen his message and responded in kind. He probably had the damn thing typed out and ready to go, knowing what Dean was going to say. Dick.

_See what I mean?_

The only appropriate response to that was:

_t(-_-t)_

Dean powered the screen off, turning back to his notes. His eyes felt grainy, too many hours of staring at the pages, anxiety and stress and what-ifs making his eyelids droop.

He was surprised when his phone chimed once more. Usually, resorting to the only emoticon he ever bothered to use signaled the end of their conversation ( _I can_ say _I’m happy, Sam, I don’t need a stupid face for that. But flippin’ the bird and sayin’ that you’re doing it just doesn’t have the same effect._ ). But Sam, apparently, wasn’t finished.

_I’m really proud of you Dean._

Dean’s breath burst explosively from his chest, taken aback. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, trying to figure out what to say.

 _I probably won’t get it_ , was the only response he could muster. It was the same mantra he had playing on a loop in his mind since he left Benny’s office.

His phone trilled again seconds later, messages appearing in quick succession as he watched.

_Doesn’t matter. I’m always proud of you._

_& I know this is the part where you say you got into acting too late,  & you’re too old, or not good enough, or you should’ve stuck with just working on cars, or whatever other bullshit you tell yourself._

_None of that is true. You’ll be great tomorrow Dean._

_I know, bc you’ve never been anything but._

_Stop working and get some sleep. I’ll even bring you that gross Meat-Lover’s pizza for GoT. TTYL._

The screen blurred with the sudden wetness in Dean’s eyes, and he blinked rapidly to clear them so he could stare at his Sam’s messages, will himself to believe them.

Times like this reminded him of how lucky he was to have a little brother like Sam.

He looked from his phone, to his notes, and back again. Nodding absently to himself, decision reached, he pushed himself up with a groan, knees protesting after being locked in one position for too long.

Dean double-checked the door locks, stared, wary, at the cold lump of egg and cheese on the coffee table before deciding he had been through more than enough the past few days, and moved to turn off the light. He was halfway to his bedroom when his phone beeped again. The bright light of the screen in the dark hallway made him squint.

_You’re probably too nervous to sleep. So a suggestion. You probably want to think about Daaahhcter Sexxxxeh so you can dream about him and his cowboy boots._

Dean’s lip twisted in a scowl, the next message popping up before his eyes.

_Or maybe you just want to dream about Castiel Novak. Don’t think you got out of that one. I know you left stuff out this morning._

And times like _this_ reminded him of how big of a pain in the ass it was to have a little brother like Sam.

Sighing, Dean trudged into his bedroom and face-planted into warm embrace of pillows and memory foam.

 

*      *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *

 

3:07 AM and 25 herds of sheep later, Dean flopped onto his back with an irritated huff to stare at the shadows on his ceiling, wide awake and extremely pissed off about it.

Every time he _just_ started to slide into the blissful hold of unconsciousness, his brain would suddenly chime in with an obliging, _Oh yeah, sleep, definitely sleep, you’ll need it for the audition of a lifetime that you had zero time to prepare for,_ and _Worst comes to worst, you have that Man Bitten By Vampire gig lined up, and, hey, maybe they’ll let you read for ‘Drunk Man,’_ and _Really, with all the big names they auditioned already, they’d never go with a nobody like you anyway, so it’s no pressure, not at all_ , and when he jumped awake with a gasp, _Oh, did not that help?_

Dean glanced over at the glaring red numbers of his alarm clock.

3:08 AM.

_Fuck. My life._

Groaning, he scrubbed his hands over his face, his scruff scraping roughly across his fingertips, then let his arms drop limply at his sides.

He definitely wasn’t getting his four hours tonight. He’d be lucky if got four minutes, at this rate.

Laying there, in the silence, in the dark, exhausted and anxious, Dean found his mind drifting to the topic he had been stubbornly dodging all day.

Sighing, he rolled onto his side, toward the center of the bed, and leaned into the cool fabric of the other pillow, inhaling deeply. He pressed a hand into the empty space beside him, the memory foam giving easily beneath the pressure.

_Do you remember him like you remember me?_

Shit, where did _that_ come from? Now he sounded like one of those sappy power ballads he absolutely did not sing in the shower. Or the car. Or the garage, when there were no witnesses.

But it didn’t matter if the memory foam had lost the impression of Cas’ presence; Dean certainly hadn’t, the memory thrumming in the tingling of his fingertips, in the heat pooling low in his abdomen, in the warm tightness settling in his chest as he remembered Castiel’s sighs, his eyes, his laughter. Of the way he moaned his name, and whispered it after, and how it sounded so different each time. Of the way they curled together to sleep, his wild hair tickling at Dean’s nose, and how Dean felt like he hit the fucking jackpot, waking up with Castiel tucked in his arms.

So, okay, he never exactly _denied_ that he and Cas spent the night together. He just sort of… glossed over it.

And seriously, he could totally blame the omission on the intense and frankly alarming outpouring of interest in his ailing love life.

Although, to be fair, from the moment the director had slammed him against the wall on set and caught him with that electric blue stare, Dean’s interest in his own love life had perked up pretty quickly, too, jelly doughnut be damned.

Dean’s fingers slid along the sheets in the space Castiel had occupied exactly twenty four hours before, the same way he had stroked the strong curve of Cas’ bicep, the sharp wings of his shoulder-blades, the smooth skin at the dip of his back.

He closed his eyes, and remembered.

 

Dinner had been a little awkward at first, conversation formal and stilted. Dean, nervous about having the attention of such a distinguished colleague (if an actor like _him_ could even call him that, damn), the circumstances surrounding their definitely-not-a-date, and the potential he couldn’t help but consider; and Castiel, wariness evident in the tense way he held himself, uncertainty clear in his eyes even as he spoke with a confident authority borne from years of leadership.

But eventually, with good beer and better food between them, they had relaxed, at first talking about how they got into show business: Castiel had sort of fallen into the director’s chair, and was quickly endearing himself to some big-names (while pissing off some others) after being labeled something of a rebel; Dean, bitten by the acting bug when he was cast as an angel in his second grade Christmas play, had given up the dream to work on cars to help put Sammy through law school, but a few years ago, at Sam and Benny’s encouragement, he moved out to California to give it a real shot while he still had his “rugged good looks.”

From there, the conversation had flowed naturally, Cas giving his uncensored opinion on Hollywood in general (and several people in specific), to the advice Dean had taken to heart (although he asked Cas to repeat some things, distracted by the shine of his eyes and the ridiculous line of his profile), to their social lives (or relative lack thereof), to their ideal vacation spot (the Grand Canyon, for the both of them, despite the fact that neither had yet visited).

Before Dean knew it, the restaurant was empty, the remaining staff hovering irritably in his periphery. The head waiter sullenly flicked down a row of light switches one by one, clearing his throat pointedly as the room grew dimmer and dimmer.

Castiel had leaned toward Dean, one eyebrow arched comically and mouth quirked, and rumbled, _“Do you think they’re trying to tell us something?_ ”

Dean laughed and then couldn’t stop, feeling like his chest had been filled with helium and he was going to float away.

Well, probably not float away; the place had _pie_ , after all. But he felt like he would’ve gotten some height, despite the dough-laden anchor in his stomach.

In the parking lot, they shuffled awkwardly around each other until Castiel finally offered his hand.

_“Thank you for suggesting this, Dean. I enjoyed myself very much.”_

Dean reached out, and Castiel gripped him tightly.

_“Hey, it was the least I could do. Actually, the least I could do would be to pay your dry-cleaning –“_

_“No, I assure you, that isn’t necessary.”_

_“It’d make me feel better –“_

_“Your company was more than enough. Dean, I appreciated our talk, and our time together.”_

Castiel dipped his head to avoid Dean’s eyes, as though he revealed too much. In the soft light of the parking light, Cas seemed to glow.

Dean had cleared his throat, given a firm shake to their still-joined hands.

“ _Yeah, uh, me, too.”_ And then, the hardest part, “ _Guess I’ll see ya around town._ ”

“ _Yes_ ,” the director had murmured, “ _goodbye._ ”

 

He hadn’t lied about saying goodbye, so Sam can suck it when Dean inevitably breaks on the details, and he never said they had parted ways.

Dean didn’t think he could have if he had to.

And he had figured, _what the fuck?_ The entire day had been a total crapshoot from the start, from being a walking ball of nerves courtesy of _Dr. Sexy_ , to committing a pastry drive-by on one of the best directors in the business, to sacking up and asking the same director out to dinner.

If nothing else, he had planned on blaming the probable concussion he had acquired from being slammed into a wall multiple times by Doctor Sexy and Castiel.

And if everything had gone to hell from that point on, he, at least, had _that_ very pleasant memory to cling to.

So he had thrown good sense to the wind, since it had worked for him so far, ignored Benny’s voice screeching in the back of his mind, and yanked Castiel into him by their entwined hands, curled the other around his neck, fingers threading through the dark curls there that he had been eyeing all night, and kissed him.

Dean felt a minor moment of terror when Cas froze and went rigid beneath him, but it was erased in the next as he surged against him, chapped lips catching at his own, mouth wet and lush when he opened to Dean. He canted his hips to guide Castiel toward the Impala to pin him against the driver’s door (partly because he just wanted him there, mostly because Dean’s knees were shaking), an exact reversal of their earlier positions but far better on this end, because a no-name extra debauching the director on set was generally frowned upon.

Cas had growled and chased after him when he pulled away, dug his fingers into the meat of Dean’s waist, but Dean only pressed more firmly against him, nuzzled at his cheek as he caught his breath.

 _“Do you wanna come home with me, Cas?”_ he whispered, voice rough, as though it had been dragged through the same gravel rolling coarse in Cas’ own.

The hum of the streetlamps was his only response, and he pulled away to look fully at Castiel’s face. The look of apprehension he wore when they first arrived had reappeared, his eyes narrowed to slits as he studied Dean closely. Dean’s heart dropped, and he shifted to move away.

_“Sorry, that was out of line –“_

_“Yes,”_ Castiel had interrupted. “ _Yes.”_ He eased out from between the Impala and Dean’s body, putting some space between them, and then gestured at his godawful beast of a car, where it unfortunately still sat, unharmed, in the next parking space. _“I’ll follow you?”_

 

In the darkness of his bedroom, Dean huffed happily, a slow smile tripping across his lips, as he fast-forwarded through the edgy drive back to his apartment, where he glanced into the rearview mirror every twenty-three seconds to ensure that Cas’ gold monstrosity was still behind him, and tried to get a decent, surreptitious sniff of his pits and breath at the red-lights without Cas wondering why he kept stretching his arms or dipping his head down like he had a nervous tick.

They hadn’t breathed a word to one another, barely even spared each other a glance, as Dean led Castiel from the parking lot, through the empty lobby of his building, up the flight of stairs, and across the threshold of his apartment.

Castiel stood stiffly against the wall, hands stuffed into his pockets, and in the muted sodium light the streetlights cast through the open blinds, Dean had watched the hard line of his jaw clench and unclench, his eyes downcast.

Apprehension made Dean’s breath catch in his throat, a strange surge of shyness locking up his chest.

_What the hell are we doing?_

But even as he had thought it, a contradicting sense of _rightness_ spread warm through his body, even though he had never even spoken to Castiel before today.

But neither had Dean ever been drawn to anyone like he’d been drawn to Cas, a fumbling moth to his unfaltering flame.

So he had reached out, and smoothed his palms over the lapels of Cas’ trenchcoat.

And then Castiel looked up at him through the sooty fringe of his eyelashes, eyes sharp and sly, and that had been all she wrote.

Once they hit the mattress, clothes flung every which way –

 

And speaking of… ah, yes.

Squinting in the dark, Dean could make out the vague silhouette of the sock he had been looking for this morning, as he rushed to get Sam his hippie coffee, draped over a blade of the overhead fan.

Dean snorted, impressed.

 _We were so fucking awesome_.

He ran the heel of his hand over his groin with no real intent, just for the pleasant sparking pressure, as he thought of how Director Cas had been everything between the sheets that he’d been on the set: focused and demanding, and yeah, like the crew said, _Director Novak, a fucking miracle worker_ , a goddamn _angel_.

By the end, though, Dean had gained the upper hand, and the aftermath found him astride Cas’ hips with both of them cradled in his sticky fist, slumped over Cas’ body, chests heaving together rhythmically as they shuddered and cooled.

When Dean had felt reasonably certain he had control of his motor skills again, he grabbed his t-shirt from its final resting place (draped over the lamp on his nightstand), and mopped up the mess between them, Cas pressing gentle lips to any part of Dean he could reach in a valiant attempt to distract him.

Dean had tossed the shirt over his shoulder, and pressed back down into Castiel, kissing him deeply. It was good, so good, like a friggin’ movie, and then Cas ruined it all by snorting loudly and wetly into the crease of his nose.

Startled, Dean sat up, demanding, “ _What the fuck, dude?”_

But the only effect _that_ had was to make Castiel laugh even harder, nose scrunched and eyes crinkled, as he brought his hands up to clutch at his chest. Even confused as he had been, Dean couldn’t help but smile at his hysterics, and tighten his thighs around Cas’ waist to feel the laughter shake through him.

“ _It’s not, it’s not_ ,” Castiel had gasped. “ _I’m sorry. It’s not you. It’s not… it’s not even that funny, actually_ ,” which Dean had a hard time believing, seeing as how he could barely bite out the words through that stupid, gummy grin of his.

Then, Cas had gestured vaguely in the direction Dean tossed his soiled t-shirt, and made a visible attempt to collect himself.

“ _It’s just_ _ironic,_ ” he giggled. “ _As it seems I have appeared to ruin one of_ your _shirts as well.”_

Barking a laugh, Dean had rolled from his perch on Castiel’s lap to collapse heavily next to him, grinning so hard his cheeks ached.

_“Yeah, well, I’d personally rather do it that way instead of goin’ the ole jelly bomb route.”_

The director tipped his head toward him, and Dean couldn’t resist reaching out to scrub his hand roughly through the lost cause that was Cas’ bedhead. He had shifted closer, then, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth as he dragged his fingers down Cas’ side.

When they had settled beneath the covers, absently trailing lips and fingertips along the nearest available stretch of flushed skin, Dean felt loose enough to murmur, “ _Can I ask you something, Cas?”_

 _“Anything you wish,”_ Castiel had replied huskily, voice cracking with the effort of keeping the intimate atmosphere they had created.

“ _Earlier, at the stage, and when we got to the restaurant. And before we,”_ Dean gripped the jut of his hip, jostling him gently in demonstration, _“you know. You kept gettin’ this look like I was out to hunt you down or something. Like you didn’t trust a thing that came out of my mouth.”_

 _“Dean,”_ Castiel had breathed. He brushed his hand up Dean’s stomach, making him shiver, and rested it on Dean’s shoulder, the searing warmth of his palm like a brand there. “ _You must understand. This business, particularly from my position… you see the corruption, and the greed. You see people doing whatever it takes to get what they believe is theirs. To some, certain people are simply… a means to an end.”_

Castiel bit at his lip, his eyes shuttered at he had looked at Dean meaningfully.

_“So, a nice way of sayin’ you don’t know who you can trust ‘cause they might be using you, or waitin’ to stab you in the back.”_

The director huffed humorlessly. “ _When you put it like that, you make me sound paranoid.”_

 _“Nah,”_ Dean had whispered, understanding. “ _Makes you sound careful. Smart._ ”

“ _Perhaps_ ,” he mumbled, sounding doubtful. Castiel stared at his thumb as he swept it along the hard line of Dean’s collarbone. “ _In any event, I want you to know I don’t make a habit of doing this sort of thing. I_ don’t _do this sort of thing.”_

_“You made an exception for me.”_

Castiel had swung his gaze to meet Dean’s, tipped his chin and cocked his head into the pillow to regard him. Dean felt his heart thump hard, double-time, as he was caught by the fire burning in his searching eyes, the resolute set of his jaw, the unabashed sincerity in his words.

“ _You’re different.”_

And then they had lain there like that, nose to nose, intertwined, until they both dropped into sleep.

 

It was totally ridiculous. It was every fucking chick flick script he made Benny promise he’d never seek out for him. Dean had just met the guy, for god’s sake, and probably would never see him again, like at that least, a fact that twisted and dug at him way more than it should.

Besides, a guy like Cas could do a hell of a lot better than a guy like Dean.

But Dean couldn’t control that tight knot in his chest when he had looked at him, all soft eyes and swollen lips, and oddness and firmness and grace…

Dean swallowed hard, clenching his fist in the cold, empty space beside him. In the dark, alone, he could admit, that maybe, just maybe, there was something to those cheesy chick flicks and sappy power ballads.

Great. Now he was still restless, still wide-awake, but with the added bonus of fucking _pining_ like he just hit puberty.

Just add some Air Supply to the mix, and he’d be friggin’ golden.

Suddenly, a shrill trill cut through the heavy, gloomy silence.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean bit out as he rocketed himself into a sitting position, adrenaline pumping. “ _Shit._ ”

He glared angrily at the culprit to no effect, his cell phone’s message indicator blinking cheerfully, undaunted by Dean’s roiling irritation.

“Whoever you are,” he muttered, “you better need bail and a lawyer, or be missing a body part.”

The charging cord whipped to the floor with a somewhat satisfying thud when Dean ripped the phone from the nightstand. His eyes watered and he swore creatively as the celestial, burning light of Heaven seemed to illuminate the room when he pressed the power button.

But, upon seeing the message (once he confirmed his eyes _hadn’t_ actually been scorched out of their sockets, it just felt like it), all the fight went out of him and he flopped back bonelessly into his pillows.

_CAS  
I ruined your shirt. And while the way it was ruined was considerably more enjoyable than being pelted with pastry, I believe it is customary to make it up to the person by inviting them to dinner. Is that something that is agreeable to you?_

Dean’s fingers flew over the keyboard, punching out a reply so quickly the spell-check couldn’t keep up with him, but paused as his thumb hovered over the send button, debating the appropriateness (or maybe the creepy desperation) of immediately answering a text at – he peeked at the time – 3:34 AM.

But as he wallowed in indecision, the phone chimed again, and again.

_I apologize for the late (early?) hour._

_For some reason, I am inexplicably having difficulty falling asleep._

Dean’s mouth quirked softly as he deleted the rambling paragraph he typed, and started over.

_Me too._

_And yes._

When no reply was forthcoming, Dean rolled over to lightly place his phone back on the nightstand, and then sunk back into the comfort of his bed, tension seeping out from every taut muscle. He grinned as he imagined Cas doing the same thing on his end, the bow of his mouth curled in that barely-there smile, blue eyes glinting happily as he ran his hand through the wild nest of his dark head.

Dean inhaled deeply, then let his breath escape from him in a calm, lazy push as his eyes fluttered closed.

And finally, _finally_ , he slept.

 

 

Fade to black.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to [jimmynovakisaved ](http://jimmynovakisaved.tumblr.com) for the great prompt!
> 
> Also posted on [Tumblr](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/tagged/actor!au)!


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